


Behind the perfection of a man's style, must lie the passion of a man's soul

by middlemarch



Category: Mercy Street (TV)
Genre: Birthday, Domestic Bliss, F/M, Gift Fic, Humor, Romance, Running Joke, Wardrobe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-16 00:00:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29567181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlemarch/pseuds/middlemarch
Summary: For he's a jolly good fellow...
Relationships: Emma Green & Mary Phinney, Emma Green/Henry Hopkins, Jedediah "Jed" Foster & Henry Hopkins, Jedediah "Jed" Foster/Mary Phinney
Comments: 6
Kudos: 6





	Behind the perfection of a man's style, must lie the passion of a man's soul

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fericita](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fericita/gifts).



“Poor Henry,” Mary said quietly. She and Jed were in an alcove of the Hopkins’ pleasant front parlor where a bay window overlooked the garden. It was the perfect spot for a tryst—or a private conversation between a couple married long enough to both find the idea of a secret assignation more amusing than exciting, though Jed insisted there were circumstances which might challenge this belief. The current situation, a birthday party for Reverend Hopkins, was not an apt test case, given the absence of moonlight, the number of guests, somehow including Miss Hastings holding court with half the college classics’ department, and the imminent return of Mrs. Hopkins from the kitchen with what promised to be an enormous cake, as the former Emma Green was widely known for her hospitality and liberal use of homemade raspberry jam,

“Poor Henry? Seems to me to be quite the opposite,” Jed replied, matching his tone to his wife’s. “Even Anne is behaving herself, though she may end up with a proposal in Etruscan before the day is through.”

“Professor Sims knows better, I’m sure—and Emma says he’s an incorrigible flirt and a confirmed bachelor,” Mary replied. “He and Anne must have each other’s measure. No, I meant the gifts.”

“But what’s the trouble there? They were quite fine, I admit, more elegant than I would have expected from a collection of dusty academics and solemn men of the cloth. I’d anticipated a half-a-dozen tomes on abstruse theological conundrums and an endless supply of monogrammed handkerchiefs to go along with the chess set you picked out for him. I’d say Henry made out like a bandit, though he’s the furthest thing from one,” Jed said.

“Not everyone is a magpie like you are,” Mary countered. “Don’t look so affronted—I’m well aware of the state of your wardrobe and your fondness for flash and folderol.”

“Why, Mary! You wound me—”

“I love you, just as you are, my dearest,” she said, laying a hand on his to remind them where they were. “But Henry is not made as you are and the surfeit of cuff-links he received today are worse than coals to Newcastle for him. And Emma.”

“Mary, it pains me to admit I don’t follow,” he said. There was not one sign that he was in any degree of pain, rather that he was enjoying himself madly, his dark eyes bright, his countenance lively, but she would indulge him. 

“This is not Mansion House Hospital at the peak of the War, Jedediah, when a man in his braces and shirt was nothing to be remarked upon. You’ve never noticed how Henry keeps his sleeves rolled up in nearly every situation? In the garden, in the house, when he is returning from his calls or finishing up a sermon—I imagine he keeps them buttoned under his frock coat when he preaches and perhaps if there’s a true cold snap, but otherwise—”

“It is a trifle informal, for a minister, I grant you that, but he’s such a man of the people, Henry is,” Jed said. “But why should all the cufflinks, especially those ones with the college crest enameled in purple and silver, really fine work there, why should they trouble Emma?”

“You cannot think Henry keeps his sleeves rolled up for only his own pleasure? I had not thought you so…unobservant of those around you, how Emma smiles and when and why,” Mary said. She’d read the truth of it in Emma’s high color and her dropped lashes as clearly as any theorem by Euler, in Alexandria, in Boston and now here. She saw too the realization in Jed’s expression and the devilish, delighted pride he took in her for noticing all of it.

“Shall I say I’ve only ever had eyes for you and have done with it?”

“You may if you’re telling the truth,” Mary answered, playing at primness. “I set a great store on candor, as you know.”

“And I set a great store on you. Shall we see though, whether we can get him to put on the pair from the college president—a wager, if you will,” Jed said. “There are no Unitarian prohibitions against gambling, I do believe.”

“And am I betting for or against you?” she asked. 

“Whichever you chose—the reward is the same for us both,” he said.

“The satisfaction of being right?”

“No. A kiss,” he said, squeezing her hand. She paused, as if she were considering him seriously, thoughtful, discreet Mary Foster who loved mathematics and philosophical debate, a leader of church committees and mother of three reasonably polite and well-mannered children.

“You’re on,” she murmured.

**Author's Note:**

> Title by Oscar Wilde.


End file.
